


marble hands, marble toes

by ifllamascouldfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Deception, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Neglect, Obsession, Past Abuse, Restraints, Stalking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifllamascouldfly/pseuds/ifllamascouldfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are monsters in the shadows. Big scary monsters that want to snatch Sam away, and take him far far away from here.<br/>It's okay though. Dean can be a monster too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the weirdest thing I've ever written, and I'm already looking forward to writing more of it. What even is my muse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has always watched out for Sam, but now he can really keep him safe.

  He watches the bar through the misted plate-glass. Watches the laughter and the talk that they call lighthearted but looks too bitter, too jaded to be anything light.

  He remembers a seventh grade science lesson; shadows are the result of blocked out light. There is no shadow without light. There is no light without shadow.

  He is the Shadow.

  The people in the bar laugh again, voices slurred and warm and liquor- smooth. The boy tips his head back, long hair falling across his face in tiger-stripes, dimples carved deep in his cheeks, and he smiles, wide and white teeth.

  So beautiful, his boy is. So perfect.

  He waits, waits until the conversation dies down, dims and flickers and flutters like a candle burning down to the end of its wick. He doesn't know if he wants the wait to be longer or shorter- if the anticipation will be better than the actualisation. He waits anyway.

  The boy's company files out, slowly, trickling away, stomping and swaying, footsteps rough and harsh and ungainly. Not graceful like the curve of his boy's neck, or the sweep of his long long lashes, or the crease of his jeans where his legs are folded under a too low table. Not gorgeous.

  His boy is gorgeous.

  He waits until they're all gone- and he feels a moment of righteous fury for his boy. They are such terrible friends. Such terrible _terrible_  friends. How could they leave him here- never mind that he's tall and strong and clever, so so clever- leave him alone and vulnerable, when anybody could stumble in and hurt him? No. _No_. Nobody will hurt his boy. He'll keep him safe, hold him close and protect him.

  The bartender scowls at his boy, tells him to hurry up and get out of the damn bar, he needs to close up.

  He watches his boy sway his way over to the door, hears the bells chime as it opens, and chime again as it closes.

  So innocent, his boy is.

  His boy stumbles over nothing, stretches his arm out to grasp at nothing, and he finally, _finally_ , reaches out to hold him steady. 

 “Whoa there” he says, smiling at the boy, at his boy. “You've got to be careful. The ice can be dangerous this time of year.”

  His boy blushes, ducks his head, hides behind his long hair and his long lashes, cheeks dimpled and flushed from cold and whiskey and embarrassment. “Yeah.” his boy says, voice syrup sweet and delightfully low, “Um. Sorry. I'm a bit of a klutz when I’m drunk. Thanks. For uh- you know. Catching me.”

  Magnificent, his boy is.

  “That's alright.” He says.

  His boy smiles again, and he can feel his own smile growing, stretching wide and far, like his face can't accommodate his joy. “You’re in no state to be driving, have you called for a taxi?”

  “Ah, fuck. I don’t have a car. And I forgot to call a taxi.”

  “Need a ride home?” He asks, and he considers praying for the first time in years.

  His boy’s eyes are glazed with liquor, but they are sharp and bright. Suspicious. “Sorry,” he says, slowly, like he’s truly sorry, “but my mother taught me not to trust strangers.”

  Smart, his boy is.

  “Well then, I suppose that’s sound advice.” He says. “I’ll tell you what, though. How about we stop?”

  “Stop?”

  “Stop being strangers, I mean. Here, I’ll go first. My name’s Dean. Dean Smith. I work in HR. I live down on seventh avenue.”

  His boy’s brow furrows for a moment before it smoothens out into a smile and a quick flash of dimples. “I’m Sam.”

  He smiles his best smile at his boy. “Well then, _Sam_ , now that we’ve made our acquaintance, how about that ride? It’s snowing awful bad out here, and I bet you’ll want to get out of the cold.”

  His boy looks up at the dark gray skies and the flurries of snow, and pulls his scarf tighter around his neck.

  “Yeah, if it's not a problem.” his boys says.

  He smirks. “No problem.”

  His car is parked two blocks down, the doors in the back only unlock from the outside, and there’s a bottle of midazolam and a clean cotton rag in the glove compartment.

  “Come along, then.” He says.

  All his to keep, his boy is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I switched from chloroform as a knockout agent to midazolam, because:  
> A. chloroform is very difficult to get your hands on these days, even by illegal methods, whereas midazolam is a prescription drug used to treat seizures and is easier to procure  
> B. chloroform has long lasting effects I did not want to deal with, and midazolam is relatively safer and harder to accidentally overdose with  
> C. chloroform isn't nearly as fast acting as midazolam and kidnapping is hard enough without your victim fighting back


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up. It's confusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a bit of research into Midazolam and its uses and side effects and tried to keep it realistic but I've taken liberties because I'm a psych student, not a doctor; and because of plot reasons.

_Rough hands grip his chin, fingers tight and bruising. There’s a muffled curse, low and colorful, and then there’s stubble scratching his cheek, burning hot. He’s scared, he thinks. Everything’s thick and unrecognizable._

 

_“Fuckin’ tease,” the voice that swore says, “prancing ‘round in those damn jeans of yours. It’ll cause you all sorts of trouble some day.”_

 

  'I know _’, he thinks, and he opens his mouth to say it out loud but his tongue is heavy and too big. All he can manage is a mumble._

_“Been thinkin’ bout that ass of yours all_ night _, boy. God, the things I’m gonna do to you.”_

 

_Big hands and rough fingers pull down his jeans._

*

 

  He wakes up to a haze and a pounding headache. His first thought is _I’m never drinking again_.

 

  His second thought is _fuck, I’m late for class_ because his eyes are closed but internal clock is telling him it’s past noon.

 

  His third thought is _I need a Tylenol and a shower and- wait, what the fuck_ because there’s a hand carding through his hair and another one resting on his hip.

 

  His eyelids are heavy and stuck together with grime and sleep-dust. He cracks open his eyes just a bit, and _god_ , it’s bright out. He groans.

 

  The hand stroking his hair pauses for a moment before continuing, moving slower.

 

  “Shh,” a voice says, “it’s okay, Sammy. You’re okay.”

 

  The hand on his hip slips under his shirt and rubs over his skin and he should be panicking; he knows he should be panicking, but he’s so _tired_. His eyelids are weighted and the hands are moving so _so_ gently. His thoughts are cold soup and day old takeout noodles.

 

  He doesn’t realize when exactly he falls asleep.

 

*

 

  He wakes up in a strange bed that’s way too comfortable to belong to anybody living in the university dorms, wrapped up in sheets that are silky enough to remind him of the time he spent a night visiting his dad when he was seventeen and resentful and he’d burrowed into his ridiculously high thread-count blankets.

 

  The ceiling is vaulted in a way that makes him feel dizzy and off balance; all high arched cherry wood beams and unfamiliar dark shadows. It looks like the type of ceiling obscenely rich people have to make sure their money piles don’t run out of space to grow.

 

  He has no idea why _he_ ’s looking up at a ceiling like that.

 

  There’s a small cough from beside him, and he freezes, because _oh shit_ , he must have been picked up by a Rich Person at the bar last night. Great. Brady’s _never_ going to let this go.

 

  The Rich Person coughs again, a strange huff of air that sounds vaguely like a laugh, but short and breathy, like it’s being cut off before it can fully form. He turns his head to look at the Rich Person, and _wow_.

 

  Rich Person is _hot_.

 

  And also a guy.

 

  A hot guy who’s sitting up on the bed and leaning, shirtless, against the solid oak headboard, with eyes so green they should have sonnets written in their honor and lips so plush they can’t be real and hair so tousled it’s the weirdest combination of sexy and adorable. Not to the mention the _freckles_.

 

  Rich Hot Guy smiles, a wide flash of white teeth, and yeah, he’s definitely got magical powers or something, there’s no _way_ can a smile make a hangover headache go away this quick.

 

  “Mornin’, gorgeous.” Rich Hot Guy says, still smiling like it’s fucking Christmas come early.

 

  “Uhm.” He says, his mind still foggy and his throat scratchy with sleep, and he clears his throat and sits up, uncomfortable, “good morning, uh…”

 

  “Dean.” Rich Hot Guy, _Dean_ , says. He doesn’t even look all that put out about having to remind him. He’s damn near cheerful about it, in fact. And hell if that isn’t even the weirdest thing he’s seen in his life.

 

  “Right. Dean. Look, I’m sure last night was great and all, but if you could just get me my clothes, I’ll be out of your hair and-“

 

  “You hungry?” Dean asks suddenly, cutting him off. “I bet you’re hungry. Whatchya feel like having?”

 

  “You don’t have to-”

 

  “I mean, I know it’s late, but there’s no breakfast police, really.” Dean says, and he sounds enthused, “So if you want French toast at two in the afternoon, who’s gonna stop you? I’ll make you French toast. Unless you want eggs and bacon. I could make you eggs and bacon. And I have Lucky Charms too, if you want. So. What do you want?”

 

  He has to close his eyes for a second and pinch the bridge of his nose when he opens them, because Rich Hot Guy Dean said all that in one big rush without actually stopping to breathe in between and his brain hasn’t completely rebooted yet.

 

  “Sam? You okay?” Dean asks, and he sounds so honestly _concerned_ , he feels like a dick for making him worry.

 

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’m just a bit hung-over and I need to call my roommate and a taxi to get back home. Any chance I could borrow your phone?”

 

 Dean presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Sorry, but I can’t do that Sam.”

 

  “Oh. Do you not have a phone? That’s okay. I’ll find a payphone somewhere.”

 

 “Can’t do that either.”

 

  “What do you mean I can’t do that? There’s got to be a phone near here _somewhere_.”

 

  Dean just smiles at him. “I mean that I’m not letting you leave me, Sammy. Not again.”

 

  There’s a flash of pain near his neck.

 

  Unconsciousness follows.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean catalogues and reminisces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short because I wrote it in forty five minutes and I'm too tired to write more.  
> Excuse the shoddiness.

 For all the days he’s spent watching over his boy, he’s never managed to get so close. He’s never managed to get close enough to count the smaller crinkles near his eyes that somehow make him look more youthful. He’s never been close enough to see the way every lock of hair shifts and fades into shades of brown he didn’t even know were possible. He’s never got close enough to trace a finger over the little moles on his face, to connect them and make shapes. He’s never been close enough to breathe in every breath his boy breathes out.

 He’s close enough to press his lips to Sam’s.

 His boy looks tired, dark circles under his eyes and a furrow in his brow that makes him look old and worn. He lies down next to him, moving slowly, like Sam’s asleep and the barest of movements will wake him up. He runs a finger along his throat, over the soft-stubble curve under his jaw, the hollow of his collarbones, the cords of his shoulders, the fluttering pulse at his neck.

 He puts his thumb on the inside of his shoulder again, where there’s muscle and soft soft skin connecting his neck to his shoulders. He pressed down too hard, before, when he knocked Sam out. There’s a bruise forming. It’ll be a small one, but still. He places a kiss there in apology. He doesn’t want to hurt his boy.

 “You just got me so excited, Sammy.” he says softly, like it’s the middle of the night and he’s whispering confessions to the stars. “I’ve waited so long to have you. Couldn’t let you get away, not now.”

 Sam’s breath hitches, and he holds his own, watching Sam’s eyelashes flutter for a second before settling down again. He tucks the blanket back where it came out from under him. He smooths out the creases on the top sheet and eases a wave of Sam’s hair behind his ear.

 

 “Sleep tight, Sammy.”

*

 He remembers being nine and watching a family move in across the street from him. Remembers watching them carry their cardboard boxes full of old memories into a house that promised them new ones. He remembers watching the kids run around on the front lawn, playing cops and robbers with a plastic gun and a sheriff’s hat.

 He remembers being twelve and watching the police rolling the neighbour kids’ dad out on a stretcher in a big black bag. Remembers seeing the kids hiding behind their mom, tugging on her skirt while she cried. He remembers peeking out from behind the window curtain and thinking that the red and blue lights were beautiful.

 He remembers being sixteen and carrying a knife in his pocket because the old neighbour kids followed him home every day even though they moved away four years ago. Remembers thinking of the gleam in their eyes, watching every shadow and wondering if he’d really be able to use the knife on anyone. He remembers breaking out into a run when he’s a block away from his house, locking the door behind him, and crying in the bathtub.

 He remembers being twenty and drunk and alone in his dorm room, throwing darts at the board and never missing once. Remembers ignoring his father’s calls, letting them ring out to voicemail and listening to them at dawn when everything was soft and fresh, and the quiet concern wasn’t hard to hear. He remembers sitting in his criminology class and thinking of the gun he had hidden under his bed.

  
 He remembers being twenty four and seeing his boy in a park and deciding that there were things that hurt more than the razor in his shower. Remembers seeing the dimples on his boy and wondering if he could carve that kind of happiness into his own face. He remembers seeing Sam and watching Sam and looking out for Sam and wanting to keep Sam safe and wanting to keep Sam for being Sam and just Sam and Sam and Sam and _Sam_.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean loves Sam so much it hurts like a knife on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. This is the most disjointed thing I've ever written  
> I'm sick and my brain isn't working shut up  
> Also warning for vague mentions of self harm and dear lord is there a lot of mentions of blood  
> (there's totally a kinda reference to the season nine gag reel that really should not be here but I just couldn't leave it out)

It's simply that, somehow, when he suddenly sees Sam everywhere, the first time he saw Sam is such a non-issue, he doesn't even remember when it was.

 

What he does remember, is the times when he saw Sam playing with a Frisbee and a friend's golden retriever. When he saw Sam sitting under a tree, long hair pushed back behind his ears, a thick book in his hands. When he saw Sam laughing at something the barista said in the coffee shop in the corner of town. When he saw Sam pacing back and forth near the amphitheater, yelling at someone on the phone, dimples twisted into a scowl. When he saw Sam with a rainbow flag draped across his shoulders, loping along lazily at the Pride Parade.  

 

He remembers the times he saw Sam and fell a little more in love every time.

 

*

 

 The blood’s still body-warm and fresh, and he licks it off his fingers curiously. It’s sweet and sharp and a little bit bitter, but he knows that that’ll just make it all the better.  He smiles then, and laughs a bit at himself. Sam would have smiled too, flashed his dimples and his straight white teeth. “C’mon, Betty Botter,” Sam would have said, “I know you didn’t mean to rhyme at me.”

 

The blood is sweet and warm and dark dark red. Red, like that time he bit his tongue when he was seven and the hot glow in his chest when Sam laughs and the color of his knuckles after that man (the evil bad evil man) looked at Sam a bit too long in the bar he visited seven towns and four days into his impromptu end-of-term road-trip.

 

The blood is thick and heavy as he fills it up in a jar- the black Dark Vader one he imagines Sam would have had gotten him for their two month anniversary, smiling and saying 'Charlie says you love Star Wars’- until the jar is full and brimming and his arms are pale as the sheets around him and his vision is shaky and blurred; and he closes it, carefully, always carefully, not spilling a single drop. Alistair would have been proud. ( _You lack finesse, Dean. You have to learn to take it slow, to appreciate the finer things_.)

 

The blood is sticky slick on his blade, and he wipes it off on the wet grass. It smells like disinfectant and vomit and iron rust, but it also smells of freshly mown lawns and old libraries and sunshine. It smells like home, he decides. Home, and the tight warmth of Sam’s arms.

 

*

 

 Sam’s wrists are soft and tanned and broad but still so so fragile as he cradles them in his hands. He wraps them in cloth, following the same motions that he’d used on himself, but a hundred, a thousand times more gentle, only a reassurance, not an attempt to stop bleeding. Because Sam isn’t bleeding.

 

 His boy would never bleed, not here. Not like him.

 

 He ties the ends of the cloth to the posts at the corners of his bed, and he watches the way Sam stretches out under his t-shirt. He pulls at a cord of muscle on his arm, tracing out the dips and valleys between all his strength.

 

 He moves down to Sam’s feet, wraps cloth around strong ankles and tired feet. He binds them to his bed.

 

 His boy looks beautiful this way, he thinks, spread out, soft and safe and protected by wood and cloth and blood and flesh.

  
 Finally, he’s safe.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's a little tied up. He doesn't like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. The random two week hiatus was totally unintentional, I swear. Let's just say that sickness plus oncoming midterms does not equate a productive writer.  
> Also, this was written on my phone because my laptop decided to crap out on me. *sigh*

 Sam was five and terrified of the thunder and lightning crackling and booming outside when his mama held him close and kissed his cheek and hummed a tune he'd only ever heard from her.

 

 "I'm scared, Mama." He'd said, and his mama smiled.

 

 "There's nothing to be scared of, baby. It's just the rain. The storm can't get you."

 

 "I'm still scared."

 

 She had laughed then, soft and tinkling like the bells above the door in Mr. Blanchett's store.

 

 "Why don't you close your eyes, and try to sleep? I'll sing to you."

 

 He hadn't wanted to, the thunder was loud and the lightning left scary flashes and shadows on his window, and his bed was cold and felt too big; but his mama looked tired, and there were circles under her eyes, and she had almost fallen asleep while they were watching _Thunder Cats_ together after dinner.

 

 So he said "okay mama" and got under his covers and she tucked him in and gave him his stuffed dinosaur and smoothed his hair back behind his ears.

 

 "You'll be okay, baby" his mama said, "it'll all be better in the morning."

  
  


***

  
  


 Sam wakes up to fuzzy thoughts and an ache in his right shoulder.

 

  _That was a really fucking weird dream_ he thinks, and he stretches his arms out and it hits him, sudden and swift, that he can't move.

 

 He opens his eyes, blinks once, twice, thrice, and then swears, loud and vulgar enough to have a nun see stars, because _of fucking course_ he can't see.

 

 He's too busy cursing every goddamn single thing in the existence of damned things to notice the sudden dip in whatever he's lying on, but he definitely notices when there's a hand placed on his arm.

 

 He also totally freaks out and comes close to pissing himself, but that's not important.

 

 The important thing is that he freezes and snaps his mouth shut because he doesn't know much about kidnappers beyond what he saw in _Taken_ , but he does know that cussing them out is not a smart move. Unless you're Liam Neeson, or have a Liam Neeson coming to rescue you. Which he's not, and he doesn't. So. Case in point.

 

 There's a familiar voice shushing him, but all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, fast and pounding. His chest is tight and there's funny squiggly lines flashing across his vision, luminescent against the blackness that is all he can see.

 

 He's having a panic attack, he knows, because he paid attention in first-year psych and knows all the signs, but that doesn't help him much because evidently the stopping of panic attacks is not worthy of being included in the syllabus, fucking idiot professors, and he doesn't realise he's laughing, hysterical and breathless, until a hand rubs across his chest, warm and steady.

  

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Just breathe. Come on Sammy, just breathe. I gotcha. Calm down."

 

 And that voice is deep and reassuring, like a hot cup of tea on a rainy day, all gravel and masculine growl.

 

 He tries to breathe, he really does, and it takes him a minute, but he finally gets air in his lungs, and it's _not_ because that goddamn voice is so fucking soothing, okay? It's _not_.

 

 "That's it, you got it Sammy. You're okay."

 

 The hand on his chest is still moving, a firm touch pressing circles into him, and it's almost reassuring.

 

 "I'm sorry for tying you up. I just couldn't have you freaking out on me just yet."

 

 "The blindfold?" He asks, because he's an idiot with no brain to mouth filter, and because he's ninety percent sure he can't see because he's blindfolded. The other ten percent is still churning up worst-case-scenarios, so he ignores it.

 

 The man behind the voice huffs, a sad sound, and he's softer when he speaks. "I- I made a bit of a mess of myself, and I didn't want you to see it. It's. It's not pretty."

 

 "Oh. Um. You okay?" And wow did he really just ask that? Smart move, there. _Sympathize_ with your fucking kidnapper. Genius.

 

 Except for how he's still in shock and processing everything and his default in situations with sad people has always been sympathy and this is definitely why he got kidnapped, because he was too _nice_.

 

 "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine."

 

 He doesn't sound fine, though, and maybe he should find out weaknesses while he can? For escape purposes, of course. Not because he's a bleeding heart and always has been since the first time he saw a kitten lying half-dead on the street and brought it back home when he was four and was missing two teeth. 'Compassion is for pussies and little girls, you gotta toughen up', says the voice inside his head that sounds like the Drill Sergeant from some TV show he used to watch when he was little.  He never liked that character.

 

 He flexes his hands, testing his restraints, and a hand folds over his own.

 

 "Don't. Just, please. Don't." Says the voice. Something pinches at his wrist.

 

 He thinks he should argue, should fight and struggle and bite and scratch and scream and tear his way away to freedom, but his eyes are slipping shut behind the blindfold, and there's a haze crawling into his consciousness.

 

 "It's okay Sammy," says the voice, "it'll all be better in the morning."


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam sleeps. Dean breathes. There are stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha midterms hate me  
> as do university application essays and the many twenty page papers my college wants me to write  
> okay so i've been busy  
> sue me  
> i'm so tired right now tbh  
> ;-;

 He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, frustrated tears held back by sheer will and the force of his fingertips pressed against the bridge of his nose.

 He fucked up. _God_ , he fucked up.

 Sam’s tucked in the bed, all soft little huffed out breaths and gentle snores and little wisps of hair falling across his face and the wrinkle between his brows smoothened out like silk sheets and soft hands.

 It's okay though. He'll fix it. He has to fix it. It's not even all that broken yet, so fixing it won't be too hard. It won't. It _won't_.

 

 He watches Sam's chest rise and fall as he puffs out breaths and he thinks of birds with their beaks tucked under their wings, and trees that are orange and quiet in the fall, and he thinks that maybe beautiful things are all the more beautiful when they are asleep.

 The cuts on his arms burn and he can't see Sam's eyelashes flutter behind the blindfold, but he stays asleep so it's okay.

***

 He was eight and stuck in bed with the flu when he realized that the words in his head sounded good when he wrote them down. And they sounded even better when he said them out loud.

 He spent three weeks talking himself hoarse before he remembered that nobody was listening.

"'Breathe me in,' said the night to the king, 'for I am smoke and meadowsweet.' The king laughed loud, like all kings do, a laugh that boomed like his soldier's canons, and he laughed at the night and its perfume."

His voice is steady like it never could be at eight or fifteen or twenty two, but it's steady now, steady and solid, like oak doors and granite floors and a well loved car.

"The king said, 'You are rank, dear night, and rankless. Your stars grow dim, and your moon hangs low.'"

Sam is listening to him. Sam is a good listener.

"The night cried for two days, from dawn till dusk, silver tears molten hot and scorching the king's skin until he fell to his knees at midnight and said, 'I breathe you in and you smell like fire and cypress trees. You smell like faraway lands, dear night. You make me miss my home.'"

Sam listens and sleeps, and Dean breathes him in.

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up to sunlight and a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyyyyy I've been buried beneath research papers that I still haven't finished.   
> But here, have a christmas present.

 Awareness returns to him like a flighty lover and a gentle breeze on a hot day, sudden and unexpected.

 Sleep pulls at him, but it is soft and sweet, gentle hands and small smiles, not the demanding darkness of before. He fights it off with a deep breath, and the air smells of cut grass and spice.

 The blindfold is gone, and when he opens his eyes, he's expecting the vaulted ceilings and the soft sheets. He sees blue skies and sunlight refracting through glass instead. Somehow, that's just worse.

 He's still tied up, silk smooth and ungiving against his skin, but he fights it anyway, because he's awake and the sun's making his eyes hurt and his limbs still feel weighted down, but he's awake and he's not going to be tied down anymore he just needs to get the fuck out _get out get out get out get out getmeoutohgodletmeoutpleasepleaseplease_ and he's panicking again and he's five years old and he wants his mother to make the thunder go away and he's fourteen and trying to figure out if she'll hate him for wanting to kiss boys and he's sixteen and he knows she'll only hug him and let him cry on her shoulder when she finds out and he's nineteen and his suit doesn't fit but that doesn't matter because she's not there to tell him she's six feet under the ground and he's twenty two and he can't breathe.

 Fuck that though.

 He stops fighting the silk, stares at the stupidly perfect blue of the sky, and he gets his fucking lungs under control.

****  
  


*

 "When I bought this house, the sunroom was the first thing I got furnished. I love it in here."

 He's been lying on his back and staring at the sky and fucking _breathing_ , okay? He's been breathing. And it's been at least a half hour of counted breaths and now he's fucking that up again so what is he supposed to do besides close his eyes and stay silent?

 Dean doesn't shut up though, even as his voice gets softer and softer and more and more anxious as he continues.

 "I like sitting in the sunlight, but I don't always have the luxury of being outside. So, I made sure I got a house with big windows and this room faces north, but I still manage to see the sunrise and sunset from here. It's beautiful. You'd, um. You'd like it. The sunrises, I mean. You like sunrises, right?"

 He thinks that maybe he should be worried about Dean knowing that, he knows he should he worried about it. And he is. He will be. As soon as he can find the willpower to open his eyes and start being angry again. Any second now. Really.

 "Sam? You're not too hot or anything, right? I mean, I don't want you uncomfortable. You have to tell me if you're uncomfortable. You have to tell me, okay Sam? You have to tell me. Just, don't. Don't think I'll be mad at you or anything. I won't be. I promise."

 

 He doesn't move, doesn't plan to answer him, until Dean says his name in this little whisper, all lost and broken and innocent, just a soft little ' _Sam?_ ' and Sam is a fucking idiot because he takes a deep breath ( _breathe breathe breathe just breathe don't stop breathing_ ) and nods, and he keeps his eyes closed.

 Dean is quiet after that, and all he can hear is the rustle of shifting cloth and shoes on hardwood.

 A cool hand touches his cheek. He opens his eyes. Dean smiles at him.

 Fuck.

  
  Crazy kidnappers should not look so fucking beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought in the comments, or shoot me an ask on my tumblr- tangerinellama.tumblr.com


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